Racket

Racket

We’d gotten wind of two older boys

running up a tab at the milk bar

a tab

with no horizon

so, we thought we’d try it on

The milk bar:

you could see

behind the counter,

into their living room—

a dining setting,

an ailing budgie in its cage,

and the year-round glow

of a gas heater

It was a simple proposition:

I cited the boys’ tab

and asked

if we could have the same

or if not

a tab with a reasonable

daily limit

The owner

became sheepish,

spoke of knowing the boys’ father;

it was a long standing relationship,

something to be honoured

as a matter of course

and

neighbourhood politics

I picked up

a chicken and salad roll

and said:

I’ll pay for this later

I didn’t feel callous

I just felt that

I was redressing an imbalance

That pre-existed

my entry into the world

I kept a rough ledger in my head

and chipped away at it

fifty cents here, a dollar there

but the gross figure

got away from me,

and

the more I took

the less I paid

I saw him, the owner,

years later

filling up his silver 1988 LTD,

its wheel base

luxuriously wide and

its hood adorned

with a futuristic coat of arms

He knew I was there

I could tell

But he kept his sight

on the bowser’s flicking numbers,

went inside, paid

and, on his way back,

as he crossed the forecourt

he looked at me, dead on

He got in his car

and drove off

his wife flicking ash

from the tiny opening

between window and frame